


Reason To Wake

by Chichuri



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-01
Updated: 2010-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-06 23:10:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chichuri/pseuds/Chichuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes waking up isn't a bad thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reason To Wake

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle IX. Prompts used: sunlight, shirt, unbuttoned, sweetheart.

The first thing Peter realizes when he wakes up is that the other half of the bed is empty. It takes him a moment, but he remembers they ended up at her place last night, so Olivia can't have gone far. He cracks his eyes open and props himself up on an elbow. The light flooding the room is from an angle no sane person should be awake to see on a Saturday. Which, of course, means Olivia is perched on the couch, glasses threatening to slip down her nose and files spread out on the coffee table.   
    
"Hey," he says, voice still hoarse and blurred with sleep.   
    
She's already smiling by the time she looks up, a crooked grin that crinkles the edges of her eyes. Pushing back strands of hair that had fallen out of her messy bun, she surveys him with as possessive a look as he's ever seen. "Hi."   
    
He checks the clock just to confirm what he already knows. "Five-thirty? Seriously?"   
    
She shrugs and ducks her head, looking at him through her lashes. "Couldn't sleep. I didn't want to wake you."   
    
"So you get up to go through case files."   
    
"Bad guys aren't going to catch themselves."   
    
"Bad guys are probably still in bed, too."   
    
Her laugh is low and throaty. She leans on the arm of the couch, propping her chin on her hand as she tucks her bare legs underneath her. All she's wearing is his shirt. He likes her in his shirt almost as much as he likes her out of it.   
    
Getting it off her will be fun, too.   
    
"You should come back to bed." He pats the spot beside him, twitches the comforter aside as he motions her towards him.   
    
"You should get up," she returns promptly. Mischief sparkles in her eyes and her grin is downright wicked. "Don't you want to go home and check on Walter?"   
    
"Oh, come on," he says, thumping backwards and throwing his arm over his eyes. "Why do you have to bring my father into this?"   
    
"You are supposed to be keeping him out of trouble."   
    
"If Walter gets sleepovers, so do I. He's perfectly capable of taking care of himself for a morning." He grimaces. "And thanks, really. Remembering my father getting sleepovers is not a memory I needed dredged up."   
    
That finally triggers the release of the giggles she's been holding back, a rare occurrence that never fails to delight him. Hearing that carefree laughter is even worth the image of his father and the last time Walter asked permission for an overnight excursion, a libido killer if Peter ever knew one. He rolls to his side and smirks at her. "If we'd gone to my place last night, we could have been treated to Walter up at all hours in questionable states of dress. Wouldn't that have been fun."   
    
Her laughter turns rueful. "After the last time, I think I'll pass."   
    
"You didn't find Walter's renditions of show tunes at three in the morning a turn-on?"   
    
She raises her eyebrows and shakes her head.   
    
He smirks again, happy to see her relaxed and amused. Just happy in general, really, an odd thing to be given the war bearing down on them. The looming threat makes these stolen moments all the sweeter.   
    
And he needs to steal more of them, before that threat decides to rudely intrude and their rare day off is cancelled. "So. You just gonna waste the morning sitting there poring over files?"   
    
"Hardly a waste." She rises to her feet, taking her glasses off and placing them on the table. In four steps she's next to the bed, hands clasped behind her back as she studies him. "Unless you have a better offer?"   
    
He grins at the challenge in her voice, grins more at the amused crinkle at the corner of her eyes. He shoves aside the comforter and sits up. Pulls at the pencils securing the coil of hair on top of her head, tossing them into a corner as her hair cascades free. She definitely looks good in his shirt, more so with her hair loose and tumbled about her shoulders. With her hair up, she's shades of Agent Dunham; with her hair free she's all Olivia. He wants her for both, but right now he wants Olivia more. "I think I can come up with something."   
    
She pushes him backwards, follows in a crawl up his chest. "I have a few ideas myself."   
    
"Do you now?" is all he gets out before her lips stop his voice. He wraps his arms tight around her, the buttons of the shirt pressing into his bare chest and the ends of her hair tickling at his hands and arms as her mouth moves against his. She controls the kiss, keeping it slow and lazy, and he lets her bring him along for the ride. When she breaks the kiss, she separates enough to prop herself up on her elbows and stare down at him, those hazel eyes of hers thoughtful.   
    
He reaches up, strokes her cheekbones and combs his fingers through the hair that curtains her face. "What are you thinking?"   
    
The corners of her mouth lift. "That you almost make it worth staying in bed in the morning."   
    
"Almost? I'm insulted." He rolls them until he's the one leaning over her, then does his best to kiss her breathless. When he stops to catch his own breath, she's flushed and panting. He dives back to press open-mouthed kisses along her throat, and she arches beneath him. "Obviously," he says, nibbling his way along her jaw, "I need to work harder."   
    
"Mmm, yes," she murmurs. He shivers as she runs her fingernails in lazy trails up and down his spine. "Your dedication should be commended."   
    
"You ain't seen nothing yet, sweetheart."   
    
Her fingers pause and her eyes narrow. "I hate it when you call me that."   
    
"What, sweetheart?" He punctuates the endearment with a light nip on her shoulder. "How about honey? Or darling? Maybe muffin?"   
    
"Muffin?"   
    
"Would you prefer snookums?"   
    
"I have a gun."   
    
"Oh, I know."   
    
She snorts softly and pokes him in the side. "Chicks with guns turn you on, huh?"   
    
"One particular chick." He pulls the top button of the shirt open, kissing the newly exposed skin, then moves on to the next button, and then the next. He loves the way her lips part and her breath catches every time his mouth presses against new territory. "It's amazing the things you never realize are a turn-on until you meet the right person. Take Feds, for instance." When he reaches the last button, he pulls the fabric apart and runs his fingers down her sides from breasts to hips as he admires the view. "I never knew the right side of the law could be so stimulating."   
    
"Flatterer," she says, fingers on her lips as if she's trying to hide the smile that keeps tugging up the corners of her mouth. He tilts his head questioningly, but she shakes her head, keeping the specifics of what she's thinking to herself. Whatever it is amuses her, though, because the mischief is back in her eyes.   
    
"I have ways of making you talk," he says, tickling the side of her breast. She squirms away, maneuvering out from under him and towards the headboard. He rises to his knees and reaches for her again, but she swats his hands away.   
    
"We're going to trade interrogation techniques now?" she practically purrs. She tilts her head and he registers, a moment too late, the smile she always gives him when she's determined to win a dare. He tries to dodge but she's on her knees and leaning forward, his dick in her hands. He's already hard, and when she squeezes he bites back a moan, his dick twitching as heat streaks though him.   
    
"Fuck," he barely breathes, meeting her stare for stare.  She's kneeling there, hair tumbled around her face and unbuttoned shirt hinting more than hiding, but that's all surface details; it's the Fed that has him in her hands.  Her expression is cool and neutral, the game face she always wears in the interrogation room, and damn him if he doesn't get even harder.   
    
"All right," she says, and she's matched her voice to her expression. He tries not to curse as she shifts one hand to the base, lightly runs the fingernails of the other up and down the underside. He can't stop the shudder, and her lips twitch into the barest hint of a grin. "I can give you what you want. But first you need to give me something."   
    
"Olivia," he grinds out. She knows him, knows exactly what she's doing to him. He considers reaching for her, but that would be admitting defeat.   
    
God, her hands on him feel so good.   
    
"So, Mr. Bishop," she continues, relentless.   She's teasing the underside of the head now, thumb strumming him in almost idle movements while her eyes bore into his, idle movements that leave his throat dry and make him exert every ounce of hard-won control to stay still. "What are you going to give me?"   
    
He's never broken under interrogation, and, aside from the use of mind-reading devices, never given information he hadn't planned to reveal. It's a point of pride. But she's broken all his rules, right from the start, and between the intimacy of the situation and the intensity of her gaze, something inside of him shifts out of place. Or maybe falls into place, giving in to the inevitable.   
    
"Anything." He barely recognizes the guttural rasp as his own voice, but he means that word more than anything he's said in his life.  "God, Olivia, anything."   
    
Her eyes widen, just a little, and her mouth opens, tongue wetting her lips. She swallows, then breathes in deep, releasing him. Her hands move to his face, cup his chin as she studies him like she's seeing him for the first time. "Didn't think you'd crack that quickly," she murmurs.   
    
"Quickly?" He quirks a brow at her and tries not to gulp for air. "It's taken four years and how many life-or-death situations?"   
    
"Hmm." She moves close enough that he can feel her body heat against his skin, runs her fingers down his neck and along his shoulders before finally settling them against his collarbone.   
    
"So, then," he says, "what do you want?"   
    
Her smile is fierce. "You. I want you."   
    
She wraps a leg around his hips, sinks onto him with a sigh. He bites back a groan, wrapping his arms around her to support her weight as he thrusts to meet her. She rises up again, maddeningly slow, and inches back down, resisting his efforts to quicken the pace.   
    
"Which of us are you tormenting here?" he growls, aching for more friction.   
    
She dips her head to his, presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth. "Can you blame me for wanting to make it last?"   
    
"If you don't stop trying to kill me?" He narrows his eyes. "Yes."   
    
She laughs. His hands drop to her hips and she leans back, her hands sliding along his arms to grip his elbows. He rocks into her, and from her hiss of indrawn breath, he's angled just right.  A repeat gets the same results, so he sets up a slow and steady rhythm until her head falls back and she clenches around him with a gasp.   
    
He settles back to his haunches, Olivia still straddling his lap. For the second time this morning she pushes him backwards, and his head hits the bed with a soft thump.   
    
"Bossy, aren't you," he says, amused, straightening his legs to get more comfortable.   
    
"Yup." She steadies herself with hands on his chest and flexes her hips, rocking against him. His hips surge involuntarily. Close, so close. A few more thrusts and he's gone, riding the wave of pleasure that comes crashing through.   
    
She's watching him when he opens his eyes, and he pulls her down to him. Licks the sweat from her collarbone, nibbles along her throat, and finally settles a sloppy kiss on her mouth. He never did manage to get the shirt off of her, but he can't really bring himself to care. "You make it worth getting up early on a Saturday."   
    
She shakes her head, rubbing her nose against his. "You've convinced me to come back to bed."   
    
"Choosing me over case files? I'm flattered."   
    
"You can help me with them later." She grins archly, rolling off him and curling against his side. "You did say you'd do anything."   
    
He snorts. "Thanks. Sweetheart." He injects as much sarcasm into the endearment as he can manage.   
    
She smirks back at him unrepentantly, tangling her fingers with his and kissing his knuckles, then settles her head under his chin. With her warm and comfortable weight in his arms he drifts back to sleep.   
 


End file.
